


You Remind Me Just How Good it Can Get

by RabbitRunnah



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Getting Older, Jack Zimmermann's yellow shoes, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Sick Child, Sick Fic, chocolate cake recipe included, pet acquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah
Summary: An assortment of short, sweet, feel-good fic originally posted on Tumblr. Although each can be read individually (and some details change between fics), in my head these all take place within the same universe. (Can also be read alongsidethis) Some of these have been edited and expanded from their original versions.





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from [Wrath of the Stag](http://wrathofthestag.tumblr.com): Jack can't find Señor Bun after Bitty accidentally leaves him at the apartment. Shenanigans may or may not ensue.

“Sweetheart, have you seen Señor Bun?”

It’s become something of a ritual: Señor Bun is the first thing to come out of Bitty’s bag when he gets to Jack’s apartment, and the last thing he packs when it’s time to head back to Samwell. In between he spends the weekend on their bed, between their pillows.

Jack never thought a raggedly old stuffed rabbit would be a part of his bedroom decor when he signed the lease on this place and his mother helped him pick out bedroom furniture and linens, but then, so much about these past two years has surprised him.

Like Bitty, who’s packing a bag much lighter than the one he carried when he arrived on Thursday night. He’s been slowly moving his things over as his final semester at Samwell winds down and — not that Jack’s counting (he is absolutely counting) — they only have three more goodbyes like this before he moves in permanently.

Reluctantly, Jack hands the stuffed rabbit to his boyfriend, but not before bringing him to his face and inhaling his scent, a combination of Bitty’s room at Samwell, his coconut-scented shampoo, and their bed here in Providence. “He smells like you,” he confesses.

Bitty gives him a soft smile and it only takes him a moment to say, “He should stay here.”

“Really?”

“Might as well leave him here. Half my stuff is here anyway, and the rest’ll be here in a few weeks. I know playoffs have got you stressed, and I can’t be here, so he can be my stand-in,” Bitty reasons. “When you’re feeling like a hug, Señor Bun’ll be here for you. And let me tell you, Mr. Zimmermann, Señor Bun is the best at hugs. And listening. He’s a really good listener.”

Jack laughs. “Yeah?”

Bitty nods and mimes zipping his lips. “He never told anybody about my secret crush on you.”

“I kind of wish he had. I might have gotten my act together sooner.”

“I’m kind of glad you didn’t,” Bitty says. “It wouldn’t have been nearly as romantic.”

“I’ll show you romantic,” Jack says. “You just wait.” He tugs Bitty back down onto the bed with him. 

“Jack! I’m gonna miss my train!” Bitty protests as Jack starts to nuzzle at his neck. But he hears the thump his duffel makes when it hits the floor and yes, that means Bitty also wants to prolong this goodbye.

In the end, Jack ends up driving Bitty back to school. Señor Bun rides in the center console between them and Bitty gives his head a little pat before he gets out of the car. “I’ll see _you_ next week.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Jack promises.

***

Señor Bun has been in Jack’s custody for less than a day, and he’s somehow managed to lose him.

No, he corrects himself, he’s not lost. He’s just misplaced.

Jack mentally rewinds the day in an attempt to recall the last place he saw the bunny. He’d been on Bitty’s pillow when Jack woke up this morning. After he’d run and showered, he’d taken Bun into the kitchen, where he’d posed him next to the pan — a wooden spoon propped up between his two arms — while he cooked his egg and pepper scramble. He’d texted a picture to Bitty: _He’s already earning his keep_.

Once the eggs finished cooking, he plated them and posed Bun for another picture. _Bun’s eating his protein, are you?_ Bitty texted back a picture of dining hall eggs and chicken sausage.

Did he take him back to their room after breakfast? Jack remembers washing his plate, putting it in the dishwasher, and then … Yes, he’d grabbed Señor Bun and was on his way back to the bedroom when his phone rang in the kitchen. He’d set him down on the pool table.

Except now … he is definitely not there.

Two hours later, Jack has searched every inch of the apartment. He’s looked under every piece of furniture, dumped out his laundry basket, and even checked the freezer. He found a chicken pot pie Bitty must have made and frozen, but no Señor Bun.

At midnight, he’s on eBay, desperately typing increasingly specific descriptions of the rabbit into the search box, hoping for a miracle. When nothing turns up he finds himself browsing Etsy shops and commissioning someone to make a replica. He attaches the two pictures he took this morning to his request; that should help.

He goes to bed full of guilt, missing Bitty and Señor Bun.

***

On Thursday, Jack walks in the door two hours before Bitty’s train is scheduled to arrive. Bun is still missing, and he still hasn’t quite figured out how to tell Bitty. There’s a new rabbit on its way, but Jack knows it won’t really replace Señor Bun.

He sets the mail on the kitchen counter, takes his bag to the laundry room (he’ll take care of his dirty practice clothes later), and heads to the bedroom to take a shower before he has to go back to the train station to get Bitty. 

When he glances at the bed, he actually startles. Señor Bun is there, nestled in his spot between their two pillows, just like he always is. There’s a note on his lap:

_Mr. Zimmermann,_

_I found this little guy on the pool table when I was here on Monday. I noticed the hole in his ear so I took him home to repair it. I hope you weren’t missing him too much. He seems like he’s pretty special._

_Anna_

Anna. 

Jack’s housekeeper, Anna, is the thief. Or, more accurately, the surgeon. Jack picks Señor Bun up and inspects the left ear. It had, in fact, had a tiny hole in the corner. Jack had even pointed it out to Bitty the first time he’d stayed over. Bitty had shrugged and replied, “Well, that just means he’s real.” Anna’s handiwork is impressive; at first glance, he can’t even see where the worn spot used to be.

***

They’re getting ready for bed when Bitty notices. “Jack! You fixed him!” He picks Señor Bun up and lovingly caresses the ear between his thumb and forefinger.

Jack simply raises an eyebrow. “Surprised?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever stopped surprising me,” Bitty says. He climbs into bed and pulls the covers up to his neck, still holding Señor Bun to his chest.

“He looked like he could use a spa day,” Jack says. That’s technically true. Bitty doesn’t need to know the “spa” was Jack’s housekeeper’s house. Señor Bun won’t tell him. Bitty was right: He’s an excellent secret keeper.

(The “replacement” Señor Bun Jack had commissioned arrives a month later. Jack puts him up in the closet, for later. Bitty doesn’t need to know about that yet, either.)


	2. Sit at my engatorp, say you'll stay forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack doesn’t realize what he’s committed to until they’re in the IKEA parking lot, gazing at the big blue box of a building with trepidation (Jack) and barely suppressed excitement (Bittle).

“What’d’ya mean you’ve never been to IKEA?” Bittle is looking at him like he’s just admitted to wearing his yellow running shoes to a meeting with his agent which, to be fair, he did do last week. Bittle’s face had done the same thing then as now — an appalled look of suppressed Southern outrage he thinks is menacing. Jack thinks it’s adorable, not menacing in the slightest, but he’s not about to tell Bittle that now because what if he stops making that face when he thinks Jack is “just hopeless beyond belief?”

“My parents always hired a decorator?”

“Y’all didn’t even go for everyday stuff? Shower curtains and rugs and kitchen stuff?”

It’s late; Jack has just come back from a long roadie and for the last four hours of this day he’d wanted nothing more than to fall into their bed, ready to sleep in until _at least_ seven a.m. So he nods off a little as Bittle details the wonders of IKEA, which sounds like a Disney World for people who are in that in-between stage of going to Disney World with their parents and going to Disney World _as_ parents, but with loveseats and bunk beds instead of Space Mountain.

“So we’ll go tomorrow?”

“Sure, Bits.” Jack snuggles closer to Bittle, inhaling the slightly sweet scent of his shampoo. The hotel pillows always smell like starch, and the bed — even when it’s only a double — always feels a little too big. But Bittle is here now, and warm, and the old T-shirt he's wearing is so soft against Jack's skin.

Bittle sighs into the embrace. “I missed you too, Sweetpea.” He drops a quick kiss onto Jack’s chin. It’s the last thing he’s aware of before he falls asleep.

***

Jack doesn’t realize what he’s committed to until they’re in the IKEA parking lot, gazing at the big blue box of a building with trepidation (Jack) and barely suppressed excitement (Bittle). Bittle printed off a map before they left, and is checking it against the shopping list he made in the car.

Jack glances at both. “So it looks like we can skip the living room and media storage sections,” he says, “and head straight to the kitchen section.”

There’s that look again. “Jack. You can’t just _skip_ a section at Ikea. That’d be like going to Paris and _skipping_ the Eiffel Tower.” He looks so affronted that this time Jack can’t help but laugh. “Don’t make me regret bringing you,” Bittle warns. “Shitty told me he’d be more than happy to join me.”

There are few things that scare Jack more than the prospect of Shitty having some sort influence over their home decor (Bittle is strong enough to resist him … Jack _thinks_ ), so he acquiesces and trails Bittle as he deftly maneuvers their cart through a maze of couches and sofa beds, bookshelves and children’s furniture. 

When they finally arrive in the kitchen department, he can see exactly why Bittle was so excited about this trip. It’s like the adorable-yet-affordable offspring of Sur la Table and the housewares department at Target. Bittle chooses his purchases with purpose, putting a set of animal cookie cutters and a silicone baking mat in their basket, but passing on a bright spatula. A set of glass food storage containers also goes into the cart.

Jack spots a stack of pie tins. “You sure you don’t need a new … vardagen?” he asks, glancing at the name on the tag.

Bittle giggles a little, more at Jack’s use of the product name than the suggestion, he’s sure. “Well, if you insist. It’s a good price.” He puts two in the cart.

If Jack had to choose between hoisting the Stanley Cup one more time and making Bittle laugh every day for the rest of his life, he’d definitely choose the latter. No question. So he continues to hold up various products and ask Bittle if he needs a “skatteby” or a “ypperlig.” He shoots those down but does pick out a soap dish and toothbrush holder for their guest bathroom.

Somehow, they end up back in the furniture section of the store, seated on a futon that isn’t nearly as comfortable as their couch. “We could put it in the spare room,” Bittle says. “So when Shitty stays the night he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Or our bed,” Jack agrees.

“He only did that once,” Bittle reminds him.

“It’s not very comfortable,” Jack says, bouncing a little to test the cushions.

“Well, we don’t want to encourage him.”

Back in the children’s section, Jack picks up a funny little stuffed animal that seems to be a cross between a dog and a unicorn. “What do you think, bud? Does Señor Bun need a new friend?”

A few feet away, Bittle’s eyes grow wide. “I can’t decide if that’s the cutest or ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says. That decides it. Jack tosses it to him and he yelps a little before expertly catching it and tossing it back. A woman wearing a baby in a front carrier gives them a dirty look. They both have a hard time stifling their laughter as they move on. Jack sets the stuffed animal in the cart when Bittle’s back is turned. 

“Is there anything you want, Sweetpea?” Bittle finally asks and Jack _has_ been thinking about getting a set of bar stools so they don’t always have to stand at the breakfast bar, so they go back to the kitchen furniture and sit in all of them. Some of them are almost comically small, which elicits more laughter from Bittle. “Looks like they didn’t have hockey players in mind when they designed these,” he says between giggles.

“What was that?” Jack picks the unicorn dog (dogicorn?) out of the cart and pretends to attack him with it. “Are you making fun of my hockey butt?”

“Never! You know I love your butt. _Why_ is this weird dog still here?”

“I like it. It’s cute.”

“It’s a little creepy.” Bittle takes it from Jack and moves to put it back in the cart.

“Watch it be our kid’s favorite toy. You’ll never be rid of it.”

Slowly, Bittle turns toward Jack. “Our _kid_?” he asks, eyes wide.

“I mean … someday? We both want them, right? Not tomorrow or next year but after we’re married—”

“ _Married_?”

“I … yes?” Jack has a proposal planned, with a ring and a dinner reservation, but hell, spontaneity has always been their thing. “Bittle,” he begins, and he’s only crying a little bit, “will you marry me?”

“Jack Zimmermann.” Bittle is clutching the dogicorn to his chest. “Did you just propose to me in the middle of IKEA?”

“I was going to do it over dinner with a ring and everything,” Jack admits. “But it just seemed right.”

For everyone around them, it’s still a normal Saturday morning. Jack can hear a couple bickering about how many chairs they need in their kitchen, and a mother trying to coax a toddler out from under a table. Nobody seems to care that Jack has just proposed, or that Bittle’s using the dogicorn to wipe away his tears.

“I guess we’re _definitely_ buying that now.”

“Oh, you.” Bittle looks at the toy in his hand. “I suppose this little guy can stay, since he had a hand in your proposal and all.”

“So it’s a yes?” Jack is keenly aware that Bittle hasn’t actually accepted his proposal, though all signs do point to a very definitive yes.

“Oh, honey, of _course_ it’s a yes. It’s always been yes. I, uh, might have a ring back home, too. You beat me to it, Mister.”

“You can still propose. We can go home right now. I’ll act surprised.”

Bittle laughs. “Deal. But first, we really need to get some jams from the market and split an order of the Swedish meatballs. You can’t leave IKEA without trying the meatballs … ”


	3. Born to Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bittle-Zimmermann family wouldn’t be very inconspicuous, even if its youngest member didn’t ride in a bright yellow jogging stroller during their Saturday morning runs.

“Do you love it?” Bob asks, wheeling the stroller into the house.

“It’s for running,” Jack says.

“It’s yellow,” Bitty says.

“It’s the one you wanted,” Bob says.

The stroller is, in fact, the very stroller they’d put on the registry, with one very notable difference: Instead of navy blue, it is a bright, blinding shade of yellow.

“It’s great, Papa.” Jack says, sincere.

“We love it,” Bitty says. “I can’t wait to put her in it.”

Later, in the privacy of their bedroom, Bitty fixes Jack with a look: “It matches your shoes.”

The Bittle-Zimmermann family wouldn’t be very inconspicuous, even if its youngest member didn’t ride in a bright yellow jogging stroller during their Saturday morning runs. Jack is the face of the Providence Falconers, Bitty hosts a popular cooking segment on a local morning show, and they both support a slew of local charities and LGBTQ organizations. They’ve been familiar faces in their neighborhood coffee shops and grocery stores since they bought their home two years ago, were frequent library patrons even before they attended the Books and Babies story hour. It’s just that now, everyone can see them coming.

***

“How many miles do you have on that stroller now?” a neighbor calls out as they run by.

“Hundreds,” Bitty says. Ellie is two now. Jack gets up early with her every morning — when he’s not on a roadie — to get three or four miles in before he has to go to morning practice. Bitty usually takes her out for a run or long walk in the evenings, after work. And they always make Saturday mornings a priority, when they can. They follow the same six-mile route through the neighborhood, always ending at their favorite café.

They order Ellie steamed milk and feed her bites of blueberry muffin. “She’s getting so big,” their waitress says, handing her a cookie the size of her head. Bitty takes it from her and breaks it in half, because he is nothing if not a responsible parent. 

“Just let her eat the whole thing,” Jack says.

“She is _two_ ,” Bitty says. “Toddlers don’t need that much sugar.”

“Who knew,” Jack says with a laugh, “That _you’d_ be the one who’s a hardass about sweets.” He picks up the other half of the cookie and takes a large bite.

“She’s two,” Bitty repeats.

Ellie _is_ two, and she’s old enough to know what she wants. Bitty’s in the shoe store with her looking for a nice pair of summer sandals — something sturdy, that will protect her little feet at the splash park — when she squeals with delight and runs to a sneaker display. “Papa’s shoes!” she announces.

They are, indeed, a miniature version of the yellow running shoes Jack still insists on wearing. Until now, Bitty has been under the impression that all toddler shoes are adorable but he finds himself reconsidering. Bright yellow running shoes, it turns out, are always horrifying. Of course they’re the shoes Ellie wants. “For me,” she says, cradling one of the display shoes like it’s one of her dolls. Bitty tries to reason with her, but she won’t be swayed, and he finally asks if they have her size in stock. “She’ll wear them out,” he tells the cashier, who puts her old sneakers in the box.

He lets her play in the mall’s indoor play area and texts a photo to Jack, who is in San Jose: “Look what _your_ daughter picked out.”

On Father’s Day, Bitty unwraps a box with a card “signed” by Ellie (really a scribble) and Jack. Inside the box is a pair of yellow running shoes, just like theirs. “She insisted,” Jack says, smug. “Now we match.” Bitty rolls his eyes and makes a lot of noise about how he won’t be caught dead in them, but he puts them on the following Saturday because he’ll do anything for his daughter and husband, even wear ugly yellow running shoes.

(He does have to admit, the shoes are really comfortable.)

“Aren’t you the cutest!” their favorite waitress says, nodding at their feet.

***

When Ellie is 12, she excitedly comes home from school and tells her dads she’s joined the middle school cross-country team. Secretly, Bitty and Jack are thrilled. Ellie has never been very interested in hockey or figure skating, got bored with soccer and softball after a season of each. But when they’d realized she’d been slowing down for their benefit on their weekend family jogs (getting older, Bitty thinks, is a hard pill to swallow), they’d also realized that _running may be her thing_.

They go to every meet, take pictures of her with every ribbon and medal. Lined up with hundreds of other kids at the start of the city championship meet, she’s easy to spot. Like her teammates, Ellie wears maroon shorts with a maroon and white singlet, but instead of white running shoes, hers are an alarming shade of neon yellow.

“Like father like daughter,” Bitty says with a roll of his eyes.

“She says they’re lucky,” Jack says, eyes on Ellie as the race begins.

They walk to the finish and wait with the other parents, cameras ready. When their daughter flies across the finish line ahead of all of the other runners, they hug and cheer and take pictures. Bitty swears it’s the most exciting thing he’s ever seen, including the time Jack scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup final.

“You know,” Jack says, throwing one arm around Bitty’s shoulder and pulling him close as they follow their daughter to the car, “those shoes really are lucky now.”

“ _No_ ,” Bitty groans.

“She’ll have to wear them every meet,” there’s a teasing gleam in his eye and Bitty wishes it weren’t so adorable so he could be properly mad at his husband for starting this bizarre (and unfashionable) family tradition.

“No.”

“I won this one,” Jack says, delighted. 

“Maybe,” Bitty concedes.

“Can I tell you something else?” Bitty recognizes the look in Jack’s eyes. It’s the same one Ellie gets when she’s done something particularly mischievous.

“Go ahead.”

“All those times you thought I was getting her steamed milk when I took her out alone? It was really hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.”


	4. You remind me just how good it can get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Sweetpea, will you still love me when I’m old and gray?” Bittle murmured into Jack’s back.
> 
> “Sure, Jack said lightly. “Why the sudden concern?”

The house was quiet and mostly dark when Jack walked in, a sign the kids were already in bed. He hated nights like this, when delayed flights caused him to miss bedtime. At least, he thought, these trips were few and far between. Since retiring, he’d wholeheartedly fallen into the role of stay-at-home-dad, but his work with a foundation that addressed mental health issues in youth sports occasionally took him out of town. It was rewarding work, but he missed Bittle and the kids when he was away.

He considered going into their rooms and kissing them good night, but there was always the risk that one or both would wake up and ask to sleep in their bed. Being the pushover parent, Jack usually gave in, but tonight he really just wanted to share the bed with one person.

The light was on in their bedroom, though Bittle was asleep — on _his_ pillow, he noticed. He must not have planned on falling asleep, because he was still wearing the reading glasses he’d started using a few years ago and the TV was tuned to one of the late night shows. Jack smiled and took them off, placing them on the nightstand. Bittle opened his eyes.

“Hi, honey. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He fumbled for the remote on the nightstand and turned the TV off. “Flight get in okay?”

“Delayed,” Jack said, toeing off his shoes and beginning to unbutton his shirt, “but otherwise fine. Kids go down okay?”

“Oh, you know.” Bittle rolled his eyes. “Ellie’s still convinced there’s a monster under the bed and Matthew got up for water three times before he finally went to sleep. I think they were really just missing you.”

“Yeah, I missed them too. All of you.” Jack stepped out of his pants and into a pair of gym shorts he’d left folded on his side of the bed. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, and was a little surprised when he felt Bittle’s arms come around him from behind.

“Hey, Sweetpea, will you still love me when I’m old and gray?” he murmured into Jack’s back.

“Sure," Jack said lightly. “Why the sudden concern?”

“I found a gray hair today.”

“Okay?”

Bittle’s hands found Jack’s hips and he turned him so they were face-to-face. “I have three gray hairs right here —” he patted his forehead “— and elevens.”

“Elevens?”

Bittle stabbed at the two vertical grooves in the middle of his forehead with his finger. “ _Elevens_.” 

Jack stifled a laugh. “I don’t know where this is all coming from, Bud, but I have news for you: We _are_ old and gray.” It was true. Jack had noticed his first grays _years_ ago; it was only fair that Bittle was finally starting to catch up to him.

“ _And_ ,” Bittle continued ominously, as if he hadn’t heard Jack, “I found those old shorts I used to wear all the time when I was cleaning out the dresser this afternoon, so I tried them on just for fun. I thought I’d wear them to bed tonight to surprise you. But. They don’t fit.”

“You expected shorts you wore when you were in _college_ to fit?”

Bittle glared at him, but there was a little bit of sadness behind it. So … it was one of _these_ crises. “All right, Bud,” Jack said as he steered him back to their bed. “What’s this really about?”

“ _Jack_ ,” Bittle all but wailed. He collapsed onto the bed. Jack climbed in next to him. “I’m gonna be _forty_.”

Ah. So this was about his upcoming birthday. This time Jack didn’t bother to contain his laughter. “Bits. You know you’re gonna be 39 first, right? Forty’s still a year away. Besides, I’m a few years ahead of you. It’s pretty great here on the other side. Unless … you aren’t thinking of trading me in for a newer model, are you?”

The shove Bittle gave him was well-deserved. 

“You know I don’t care about gray hair or a few extra pounds or … _elevens_ ,” Jack reassured him. “If I did I’d be a hypocrite.” He brought his hand to his husband’s forehead and used his thumb to smooth over the lines he found so offensive.

Bittle relaxed a little at the touch. “But what happened to us, Jack?” he sighed. “Don’t you feel _old?_ Don’t you miss the way we used to be?”

And, okay, he did feel it, whenever one of the kids woke up with a nightmare and asked to sleep in their bed and ended up kicking him all night. He felt it whenever he iced his knee after a run, knowing it was only a matter of time before his doctor recommended another surgery. He felt it at the beginning of every season, when the rookies looked more and more like they could be his _children_ rather than his peers.

He thought about the 19-year-old rookie he’d been mentoring. The kid was phenomenal on the ice, but still had a lot of growing up to do. He remembered what he’d been like at 18 and 19 — a wreck — and 21 and even at 24, still trying to fight through his feelings for Bittle. When he thought about his first year in the NHL he thought about winning the Cup, sure, but he also remembered the pressure he’d been under to prove he was more than the kid who overdosed before the draft, to live up to his father’s name, to hide his relationship. He wouldn’t go back to 25 if you paid him, even if it meant he’d get to spend one more day in his 25-year-old body.

It helped that, in the years since he’d retired, Bittle had never once complained about the way his body had changed, or looked at him any differently than he had when they were first together.

“Yeah,” Jack finally agreed, “we’re getting older. But it’s not all bad. Isn’t the point of getting older that we also get better? You’re the best dad in the world —” Bittle elbowed him in the ribs at that. “Okay, you’re definitely _tied_ for first place. You’re so good with the kids, so patient with them. And you still make the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted. Better, because you’ve had years to perfect it. When you were 20, you were still putting baking videos up on the internet for fun and barely passing some of your classes —” Jack winced as Bittle’s elbow made contact with his side again “— and now you’ve written two bestselling cookbooks.”

“Soon to be three,” Bittle said, his tone considerably brighter.

“That,” Jack said, “I don’t doubt.” He really didn’t. The book coming out in a few months was all easy-to-follow recipes that college students and recent graduates could make with limited funds and cooking supplies. His publicist was already booking appearances on all of the national morning shows.

“And,” Jack added, poking at his waist, “your body may be a little more lived in, but I still love everything about it.” 

“I love yours too, Sweetpea.” Bittle reached around and gave Jack’s ass a little squeeze for emphasis.

“Plus, there are other things you are much, much better at than you were at twenty.”

“Like…?”

“Mmm, I think you know what I’m talking about,” Jack said as his hand found its way under the waistband of Bittle’s shorts. Shorts that weren’t quite as short as the ones he used to wear around the house in those first years of dating, but that still revealed a tantalizing amount of thigh. Bittle in any shorts still had the power to make Jack forget his own name.

“Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle said with a saucy little smirk, “are you trying to get in my pants?” And _oh_ , that little self-satisfied smile Bittle reserved for Jack and moments like this was one thing Jack hoped would never change.

“Trying,” Jack said with a throaty growl, “to get you out of them.”

“Yeah? I think I can help you out with that.” Bittle wiggled his hips a little and tilted his head up for a kiss Jack accepted all-too-eagerly. He knew it would be a while before they slept, and also that their alarm was set for 6:30 so they could make it to Ellie’s 7:30 soccer game. But as Bittle’s hand drifted lower on his hips, he decided he didn’t care. In the morning they’d be a little tired, sure, but they’d also be happy. That, he thought, was worth all the elevens in the world.


	5. the story of us

Jack has just finished carrying the last of the boxes labeled “bedroom” upstairs and is in the middle of pouring two glasses of iced tea — regular for himself, sweet for Bittle — when the doorbell rings.

“Can you get that, hon?” Bittle asks. He’s in the same room but his voice sounds far away. “I’m up to my elbows cleanin’ these cabinets before I dare put anything in them. I don’t think the insides of these have seen a sponge in three decades.”

Jack makes a face, one Bittle completely misses because the upper half of his body has been swallowed by the cabinet below the sink. “That’s what we get for buying an old house, eh?” The doorbell rings again. “I’ve got it,” he reassures Bittle, who grunts in response.

Jack is well aware he is, as Bitty says, “a sight.” However, the pizza delivery person probably doesn’t care that he’s dressed in paint-stained basketball shorts and slightly-too-tight (it’s Bittle’s, and is apparently “a good look” on him) SMH shirt, and covered in a sheen of sweat. Someday, when their personal lives aren’t dictated by the NHL’s schedule, they’ll be able to move in the winter. For now, it is what it is.

When he opens the door he is surprised to see, instead of a pizza delivery driver, a young girl. Her long brown hair is done up in two pigtails and she’s carrying a notebook and pen. When she smiles, she shows off a mouth full of braces and Jack is briefly reminded of Chris Chow.

There’s a woman standing at the end of the driveway. She catches Jack’s eye and smiles.

“Hi,” Jack greets her. “Can I help you?”

The girl takes a visible breath. “My name is Mary Sullivan-Torres. I’m 11 years old. I’m the editor and reporter for _What’s Going On?_ , the official neighborhood newspaper for Maple Street. My mom, Kara Sullivan-Torres —” she waves her hand in the direction of the woman on the driveway “— is my assistant. I’d like to be the first to welcome you to our neighborhood. Do you have any news for our next issue?”

Something about the slightly stiff, obviously rehearsed way Mary recites her speech endears her to Jack.

“I’m Jack,” he says, smiling in a way he hopes will put her at ease. “We just moved in so, I guess that’s news. Bits!” he calls. “We have a visitor.”

There’s a thump in the kitchen, followed by an “oh!” and a clatter. Bittle pads into the room, a hand pressed to the back of his head. “No pizza?”

“This is Mary,” Jack says. “She wants to know if we have any news. For the neighborhood newspaper,” he clarifies, when he catches Bittle’s puzzled look.

Bittle instantly understands and smiles brightly at Mary. Jack loves this about him. “Well, hi, Miss Mary. I’m Eric. What kind of news are you looking for?”

Mary opens her notebook and pulls out a single sheet of paper, which she hands to Bittle. Reading over his shoulder, Jack sees it’s the most recent edition of _What’s Going On?_ It includes five paragraph-long stories and two photos. Jack quickly scans the page. There’s a story about a mysterious sign that was found in the street, another about a neighbor who wrote a book. Brownie, who lives in “the two-story on the corner,” is the recipient of the “Dog of the Week” award, which apparently includes her photo in the paper and a box of dog biscuits. 

Bittle nods seriously. “Well, I’m not sure we’re as exciting as a mysterious sign, but you can write something about how Jack and I are new to the neighborhood and we’re happy to be here.”

Mary begins scribbling in her notebook. “Do you and Mr. Jack have jobs?”

“Well, I work at a television station doing social media things and I’m also writing a book. And Jack —”

“—I play hockey for the Providence Falconers.”

Mary keeps writing. “Why did you decide to move to Maple Street?” she asks.

“The windows,” Bittle says at the same time Jack says, “The tree.”

They glance at each other. Mary just stares at them, waiting.

“I really liked the windows in the kitchen,” Bittle explains. “I like to bake and when we first looked at this house I could imagine myself baking in that kitchen, looking out at the neighborhood while I bake.” 

“I, uh, thought the tree in the backyard would be perfect for a treehouse,” Jack tells her. He isn’t surprised, really, when Bittle finds his hand and gives it a little squeeze. They bought the house hoping, of course, that they won’t be the only ones to fill it. But Jack has never told him about the tree.

“That’s good,” Mary proclaims. She snaps her notebook shut. “Thank you. The paper publishes on Wednesdays. Would you like me to drop it off?”

“We’d love it,” Bittle says. “We may even have some cookies for you and your mama. If your mama says it’s okay, of course.” He raises a hand in greeting to Kara, still waiting on the driveway. She smiles and waves in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Mary,” Jack says. “I’m looking forward to seeing your story.”

Mary smiles a little shyly and looks Jack in the eye. To Jack, it looks like she’s making an effort to do both. “Thank you, Mr. Jack and Mr. Eric. It was very nice to meet you.” Then she’s off, running down the driveway to meet her mother.

“She was sweet,” Bittle says when they’ve closed the door.

“She was,” Jack agrees.

The next day, Jack and Bittle run into Kara Sullivan-Torres while on an after-dinner walk around their new neighborhood. She’s walking a dog on the other side of the street but motions for them to wait and crosses to greet them.

“Thank you, for your patience with Mary yesterday,” she says after introducing herself. “She really loves writing, and her therapist thought the newspaper would be a good way to work on her social skills.”

“I understand,” Jack says. “It’s not always easy for me, either. Your daughter is a lot braver than I was at her age.”

“She’s a sweet girl,” Bittle adds. “Tell her she’s welcome to stop by any time.”

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” Kara says with a laugh. “She was quite taken with the two of you. And she said something about cookies next time?”

“In our house,” Bittle says, “we always have cookies.”

*

“Do you have any news for me today?”

It’s been two months since they moved in, and Mary has come by every Tuesday without fail, looking for news. Jack enjoys her visits; he doesn’t always have news to share but sometimes Mary will give him an early scoop. Last week, she excitedly told him there had been a break in the case of the mysterious sign. Apparently, she spotted a similar sign advertising a band’s appearance on a bulletin board at a nearby coffee shop.

“I don’t have any news this week,” Jack tells her, “but Bittle has some exciting news. He’s not here right now, but I don’t think he’d mind my telling you that the book he’s been writing is going to be published sometime next year.”

“What kind of book is it?” Mary asks, pen at the ready.

“It’s a cookbook, actually.”

She frowns. “Mr. Atkins wrote a cookbook, too. Do you think it’s weird that two of our neighbors wrote cookbooks?”

“I think people like Bittle and Mr. Atkins, who are good at cooking and baking, like to write cookbooks to help other people learn to be better cooks.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mary makes a couple of notes in her book. 

“I’m very proud of him,” Jack adds. “Bittle’s wanted to publish a cookbook for a long time.

She looks up at Jack. “Why do you call him ‘Bittle’ if his name is Eric?”

“Euh …” This isn’t the first time somebody has asked Jack this question, but Mary, in her typically blunt way, has managed to catch Jack off guard. “Well, when Bittle — _Eric_ — and I met, we were teammates on our college hockey team. Sometimes, when you’re on a team, you call your teammates by their last name, or a nickname. A lot of our friends called him ‘Bitty’ but most people call him ‘Eric’ now.”

“I see,” Mary murmurs. “Do you have a nickname?”

“Eric,” Jack says, “likes to call me Sweetpea. But that’s not a hockey nickname.”

“I think I have what I need,” Mary says. “Thank you.”

The next day, Jack gets home from practice to find _What’s Going On?_ tucked under the doormat. Tucked in between “Ghost or Windy Day?” and “Mysterious Sign Update!” (“I wrote to the email address on the sign and got a response from Alex, who plays the bass in a band called Raccoon Handshake. He doesn’t know how his band’s sign ended up on Mrs. Lieu’s lawn.”) is the story announcing Bittle’s book: 

 

> **Maple Street resident to publish cookbook**
> 
> Mr. Eric Bittle, who lives in the yellow house with the porch swing, has just written a cookbook. It’s going to be published sometime next year, said his husband, Mr. Jack Zimmermann, who is “very proud.”

 

Jack reads the story aloud to Bittle when he gets home from his social media job.  
“Good job, Sweetpea,” Bittle says. “Should I hire you as my official publicist?”  
“Ah, maybe not,” Jack says. “But maybe we should give Mary the scoop on all of our breaking news.”

*

“Jack got a hat trick in his game against the Schooners last night,” Bittle tells Mary in late March. “And a broken wrist,” he adds sourly.

“It’s not even that bad,” Jack says, holding up his wrist. Yes, the cast is cumbersome. Yes, it means he’s out for the rest of the season. That’s not what Bittle’s worried about, he knows.

“It’s not exactly great,” Bittle says. 

“It’ll heal,” Jack says, all false optimism. 

“Does it hurt?” Mary asks.

“Some,” Jack says. “Have you ever broken anything?”

“My older sister broke her arm last summer when she fell out of a tree. She cried a lot because it hurt so much.”

“Well, my doctors are taking good care of me,” Jack reassures her.

“Jack only cried a little,” Bittle chirps.

“Bits kissed it better.”

Mary’s eyes dart nervously from Bittle to Jack. “Can I write that?” 

“You can say it hurts but I had a lot of help from my doctors and Bittle.”

“What happens when you get your cast off?” she asks.

“Well, I’ll probably have to do some exercises every day to strengthen it. I’ll be able to play again by the time pre-season conditioning begins.”

“Can I take a picture of your hand?”

“Sure, why not?” Jack waits while Mary runs to the end of the driveway to talk to Kara. They return together, Kara fiddling with the settings on her camera.

Jack poses, pointing to the injured hand with his good hand. When Mary is satisfied, she nods her head decisively and ends the interview with her customary “Thank you, Mr. Jack and Mr. Eric.”

 

> **INJURY! Providence Falconer Jack Zimmermann out for season**
> 
> Our neighbor, Mr. Jack Zimmermann, broke his right wrist playing in a hockey game against the Seattle Schooners. He said it hurts, but he’s getting a lot of help from his doctors and his husband, Mr. Eric Bittle. Best wishes to Mr. Zimmermann for a speedy recovery!

 

“This is big,” Bittle says, reading over Jack’s shoulder. “She never writes subheads.”

“Bigger than Molly the goldendoodle’s birthday party?”

“Molly’s an _angel_ ,” Bittle says, “but her birthday wasn’t mentioned on _Sports Center_.” He reads the three-sentence story to Jack and smirks. “She was a lot easier on you than ESPN was.”

“She didn’t even ask if I might be getting too old for this,” Jack says bitterly.

“ _Honey_. Stop talking like that. You’ve still got some years left in you. This is just a setback.” Bittle’s been repeating this for three days, long enough that it’s finally started to drown out the talking heads on _Sports Center_. “Do I need to spend more time kissing it better?”

“Maybe,” Jack says, playing to his husband’s emotions. “After I take my next dose of pain killers. And maybe a cookie?”

Bittle laughs sweetly. “Come on, you big baby. Let’s get you fixed up.”

*

“We have a scoop for you,” Jack says when Mary comes to the door one afternoon in mid-June. “Do you want an exclusive before everyone else finds out?” 

“Is it big news?”

“You and your mom should come inside,” Jack says quietly. “Does she have her camera?” He motions for Kara to join them and waits until they’re both inside to close the door behind them and walk them into the living room. 

Bittle, who is seated on the couch, stands when they arrive. He’s holding a small bundle, their daughter Ellie, who is all of 72 hours old. So far, they’ve managed to keep this news a secret from the media. They’d both agreed Mary should be the first to report it. (Bittle had sniffled a little and wiped a tear away when Jack suggested it. Jack may have cried a little too. It’s been an emotional three days.)

“Miss Mary, meet Miss Ellie,” Bittle says, adjusting the receiving blanket Ellie is swaddled in so Mary and Kara can see her little face. “She’s our daughter.”

“She’s so tiny,” Mary breathes. “Can I touch her?”

Jack nods, and watches as Mary carefully presses a finger to Ellie’s soft cheek. Kara watches with a bemused little smile. “Congratulations, you two. Do you need anything?”

“Maybe just another set of hands,” Bittle jokes. “Thank the lord Jack got that cast off and didn’t require any extra rehab.”

“It was not,” Jack admits, “the best time for an injury.”

“It all worked out,” Bittle says, bumping Jack a little more gently than usual with his hip. They’re still getting used to doing things with a baby in their arms.

“If you sit together on the couch right there,” Kara says, “I think I can get a good picture.” She waits as Jack and Bittle sit next to each other and adjust Ellie so her face is visible. 

“All right, I’ll take a few. Smile,” Kara commands as Mary looks on, taking notes.

They don’t even have to be told, really. Their smiles haven’t left their faces for three days. 

 

> **New Neighbor!**
> 
> Mr. Jack Zimmermann and Mr. Eric Bittle welcomed their daughter, Ellie, into the world on June 15. She has dark hair and blue eyes, but Mr. Zimmermann said they “might change.” So far, said Mr. Bittle, “Ellie sleeps a lot and cries a little.” Congratulations to the Bittle-Zimmermann family!

*

“I just signed a new book contract,” Bittle tells Mary and Kara over cake. “This one is for desserts.”

“Wasn’t your last book about desserts?” Mary asks, confused.

“Well, this one is about desserts that aren’t pie,” he amends.

“I like your cookies,” Mary says. Jack smiles. Every time Bittle makes a batch of cookies, he carefully wraps five in plastic wrap and delivers them to the Sullivan-Torres home. Kara says she takes them in her school lunches.

“I’ll definitely have some cookie recipes in there,” Bittle says with a wink. “But I think the real crowd pleaser is my Aunt Judy’s Kahlua Cake. It’s a great choice when you want to serve a decadent dessert but you don’t have time to make a cake from scratch.” 

“It’s true,” Jack says. “It was the first thing to go at our holiday party last year.”

“Maybe you can share the recipe with our neighbors,” Mary suggests.

 

> **Desserts by Eric**
> 
> Our neighbor, Mr. Eric Bittle, has signed a contract for a new cookbook. This cookbook will feature dessert recipes. Mr. Bittle is sharing his Kahlua cake recipe with us today.
> 
>   * 1 package chocolate cake mix 
>   * 1 package instant chocolate pudding mix
>   * 2 cups sour cream
>   * 4 eggs
>   * 3/4 cup canola oil
>   * 1/2 cup Kahlua
>   * 1 bag of mini semisweet chocolate chips
> 

> 
> 1\. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine cake mix, pudding mix, sour cream, eggs, oil and Kahlua, using an electric mixer. Stir in chocolate pieces.
> 
> 2\. Pour into a greased Bundt pan. Bake for approximately 45 minutes. Cool in pan for 10 minutes.

*

Jack can measure time by the issues of _What’s Going On?_ The story of their life on Maple Street — from the week they moved in (“New Neighbors!”) to the news announcing the birth of their daughter to Bittle’s “exclusive” recipes — is collected in a binder they keep in the bookcase.

Mary looks a little sad today.  “It’s been a good three years, but I’m going to high school in the fall and I probably won’t have time to publish _What’s Going On?_ regularly,” she informs them. “Next week’s issue will be the last. It will be bigger than usual because I want to get a story from all of our neighbors. Do you have any news for me?”

As they’ve done so many times in the three years since Mary began asking them this question, Jack and Bittle exchange a look and have a silent conversation. Bittle raises an eyebrow. Jack nods.

“We talked about it,” Bittle says carefully, “ and we — well, Jack, really — have one last scoop for you.” He gestures for Mary and Kara to follow them inside.

“Nobody knows about this yet,” Jack says once they’re seated around the kitchen table, “but tomorrow night, after our first home game, I plan to announce my retirement from the NHL. A lot of news outlets have been guessing I’m going to say something, but I want you to be the first to officially break the news.”

Kara catches Jack’s eye. “Are you sure—”

“Mary has always reported our news respectfully and accurately,” Jack says. “I’ll make an official statement at the press conference tomorrow, but I’d really like somebody other than _Sports Center_ to be the first to report this.” Jack is maybe still a little bitter about some of the things the mainstream sports media has said about him over the years. Maybe. “Would you like to tell the story, Mary?”

At their feet, Ellie arranges an assortment of colorful wooden sushi and desserts on plastic plates. 

“Okay,” Mary says, opening her notebook and taking out her pen. “I have a few questions.”

 

> **Jack Zimmermann to retire from NHL**
> 
> Our neighbor, Mr. Jack Zimmermann, announced he’ll be retiring from the NHL at the end of the current season. He has played for the Providence Falconers since he graduated from Samwell University. When asked what he plans to do when he’s retired, Mr. Zimmermann said he’s looking forward to working with local charities and being a stay-at-home father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kahlua cake recipe included in this chapter is one my husband's family has been enjoying for many years, and has taken on a life of its own within my social group. Although the recipe calls for a Bundt pan, I like to make it in mini loaf pans and give it to friends and neighbors as gifts during the holidays. (Note: If you’re using gluten free cake mix, this recipe typically requires two boxes of cake mix.)


	6. Got your (baby's) back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All new parents do this, right?

Bitty and Jack are on the couch, enjoying a rare afternoon off together, when the baby monitor lights up with Ellie’s cries. “That’s weird,” Bitty says, sitting up and pressing pause on the television remote. “We just put her down an hour ago.”

“Sometimes she does this,” Jack says. He’s been on nap duty since his season ended, is used to Ellie’s schedule in a way Bitty isn’t. “She’ll soothe herself back to sleep in a few minutes.” He pulls Bitty back down against him and resumes the show they’ve been watching, some historical drama they’re finally getting into after much prodding from Ransom. Truth be told, Bitty’s having a hard time getting into it and between the warmth of Jack and the fact that it was his morning to get up early to fit in a pre-dawn run, he’s finding it hard to stay awake.

Or he would be, if Ellie would stop crying. If anything, she’s gotten louder. He feels Jack shift against him. “I’ll go check on her,” he says, pausing his show again.

“Thanks, honey,” Bitty says drowsily. He gets up, too, and heads into the kitchen. A cup of tea might wake him up a little, at least enough to order dinner and enjoy the rest of the evening with his family. It’s pizza night. He idly pulls one of the menus they keep in the drawer next to he fridge and considers placing the order now.

“ _Bits_! Can you come here?” Something about Jack’s voice sounds off. “ _Now_?”

Bitty flies upstairs expecting to see — he’s not really sure what he’s expecting to see, actually. Based on the frantic edge to Jack’s voice, an improbably levitating baby isn’t out of the question. Instead, he walks into a very normal scene of Jack holding their whimpering — but not levitating — daughter. “I think she has a fever,” Jack says. “She’s really warm and sweaty. Look how red her face is.”

“It’s a little chilly in here,” Bitty observes. He steps toward them and presses a hand to Ellie’s forehead. “Honey, she’s really warm.”

For a second they just stare at each other.

“I’ll get the thermometer,” Bitty says, already rummaging through the little basket of baby accoutrements on the changing table.

“I’ll check the book to see what it says.”

“Here, put her down here —” Bitty gestures at the changing table “— so I can check her temperature.” Bitty swipes the fancy thermometer over her forehead twice, just to be sure, while Jack pages through one of the infant care books they received as a gift at their shower.

“One-oh-two,” Bitty announces when the thermometer beeps. “Oh, sweetie.” He gathers Ellie into his arms and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Are you feeling yucky?”

“Did you do it more than once?” Jack asks. “Let me try.” Still holding the book in one hand, he fumbles with the thermometer and gets a series of error beeps twice before the thermometer registers 102.3 degrees.

“What does the book say?” Bitty asks.

“Uh, okay,” Jack says, returning his attention to the page. “It says that anything under 103 can be treated at home. Do we have infant Motrin or Tylenol? We can try using one of those to bring her fever down. We can alternate them too, it says. We can also … let me see ... try giving her a cool bath.”

Bitty’s already on his way to Ellie’s bathroom, where they keep the medicine in a cabinet above the sink. Jack follows and immediately begins filling the infant bathtub with lukewarm water.

“We have Motrin!” Bitty announces, pulling it out of the medicine cabinet and waving it in Jack’s face.

“Okay, just—” Jack grasps Bitty’s wrist and holds it steady, begins studying the label “—I’ll get this ready while you undress her.”

By the time Bitty has Ellie settled in her tub with a small rubber duck to hold, Jack has filled the little dropper with medicine. “Open up, sweetie,” Bitty says as Jack prepares to dispense the viscous liquid into her mouth. Some of it dribbles onto her chin but she doesn’t spit it out so Bitty considers it a win. “I think she liked it,” he says, making a face. Indeed, Ellie’s mouth is open like she’s expecting another dose.

“How long should we keep her in here?” Jack asks.

“I guess until she cools off? Five minutes? She seems pretty happy playing with her duckie.” Bitty gently swipes a soft, damp wash cloth over her forehead, cleans up the bit of medicine still on her face.

Jack’s still skimming the book. “We need to keep her hydrated. Her next feeding is in about an hour, but we can give her a little water now.”

When Ellie is bathed — and actually a bit smiley despite the fever — they dress her in just her diaper and take her downstairs. She takes only a few sips of water from her bottle before her eyelids begin to get heavy and she falls asleep on Bitty’s chest. “She still feels warm,” he whispers.

“Do you think we should call the doctor?” Jack asks. “Maybe he’ll want us to bring her in. What if she has an ear infection or the flu?”

Bitty frowns a little. “Do you think—”

“I don’t know!” Jack snaps. “That’s why I’m calling the doctor.” He sees the look on Bitty’s face and sighs. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Bits. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just worried.”

“Call the doctor. Maybe urgent care is open.” He watches Jack dial and listens to his side of the conversation as he speaks with the on-call after hours nurse.

“Yes,” he says after explaining why he’s calling. “Eleven months … We’ve given her a fever reducer and a bath … No. No vomiting … She ate lunch this afternoon, her appetite was normal … She’s not lethargic just … warm … Okay … Tomorrow morning? … Yes … All right. Thank you.” Jack ends the call and turns back toward Bitty. “If her fever climbs past 104 we need to take her to the emergency room. Otherwise, we can take her to the doctor in the morning.”

“Should we try feeding her now?” Bitty asks. “Maybe just a bottle?”

“I’ll go make it,” Jack offers. “It’s probably a good idea to just feed her and put her to bed.”

That’s easier said than done. Ellie takes about half of the bottle before falling asleep in Jack’s arms, but startles as soon as they put her in the crib. “She wants her papa,” Bitty says. “Why don’t you sit with her and I’ll make you a plate of something to eat.” Jack nods and settles back into the rocker, humming a lullaby Bitty knows Alicia used to sing to him.

When Bitty returns with a bowl of reheated pasta, they switch places without disturbing Ellie too much. Jack eats quickly. “I can make you something,” he offers. “Is there still some pasta in there?”

“Already made a bowl, honey. All you need to do is warm it up.” He accepts the food gratefully when Jack returns, eating with one hand while he holds Ellie in the other arm and Jack holds the bowl. It’s a bit awkward, a little messy. Jack takes the fork from him and stabs a cherry tomato and piece of chicken.

“What, you’re gonna feed me now?” Bitty laughs in spite of himself.

“So much for pizza night,” Jack says.

 

It’s a long night. Each time the medicine begins to wear off, Ellie’s fever spikes and she fusses until the next dose kicks in. Bitty paces the floor with her each time, singing to her until she falls asleep. She’ll sleep fitfully as long as she’s being held, so they’ve been taking turns lying on the couch with her, trading off every hour or so. Neither one of them really sleeps. By the time the first rays of sunlight begin to peek through the living room windows, Bitty’s eyelids feel like they’re made of sandpaper. He’s spent the last two hours dozing upright in one corner of the couch so Jack can stretch out. His back is stiff and his legs are numb underneath Jack’s feet.

“Bits?” Jack whispers. Bitty wonders how long he’s been awake, if he’s slept at all since they switched places. “Can you take her? I have to pee.”

Bitty stands for the handoff. “She probably needs a diaper change anyway.”

It’s an understatement to say they’re ready when the doctor’s office opens at eight. By the time Jack calls to see if they can be seen, both are showered and dressed and ready to walk out the door. It’s their good luck that the receptionist tells them to come in right away.

 

Bitty loves Dr. Green, who came highly recommended by some of Jack’s teammates. He’s patient and even-keeled in a way he appreciates. Still, the fact that he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile as Ellie happily grabs at the stethoscope dangling from his neck rankles just a little.

“Well, her ears look clear and her lungs sound great,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with her throat, as far as I can tell. Other than a little fever, she seems perfectly fine.”

“So what’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, suspicious. “Do you need to run tests?”

“I’m diagnosing her with a case of overly anxious first time parents,” Dr. Green says with a smile. “It’s probably just a little virus, in which case you’re doing the right thing by giving her a fever reducer and keeping her hydrated. I suspect her fever will be gone by tomorrow. If she starts vomiting and can’t keep liquids down, or starts to have trouble breathing, bring her back in. But for now you’re good to go. Take her home and get some rest. It’s not unusual for babies to sleep a lot when they’re trying to fight something off, but it looks like the two of you could use some as well.”

“Thank you doctor,” Jack says. “We appreciate you squeezing us in.”

“Lord, you must think we’re ridiculous,” Bitty adds, “wasting your time coming in here for a little fever.”

“If you only knew how many parents I’ve seen for the same reason,” Dr. Green reassures them as he exits. “Now, if you stop by Melissa’s desk on the way out, she’ll give you both a sticker for doing such a great job today.”

Bitty frowns at the door in indignation. Jack pokes him in the ribs. “Come on, that was funny.”

“It was a little funny,” he admits as he pulls Ellie’s arms through her little hoodie. “It’ll be funnier in about a year. Or after I’ve had some coffee.”

“Ha ha. Yeah.”

 

Bitty can feel his eyelids getting heavy as Jack drives them home. He tries to fight sleep's gravitational force but finds himself jerking awake when he feels Jack’s hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Bits,” Jack whispers. “We did it.”

Bitty smiles at Jack as he comes into focus. With a day’s worth of stubble and bags under his eyes, he looks just as wrecked as Bitty feels. “Did what, honey?”

“Got through this.”

He places his hand over Jack’s. “We did, didn’t we?” Suddenly he wants to laugh. “Lord, what would our mamas say if they’d seen us last night?”

“They’d have sent us to bed and told us not to worry. And then mine would have called yours and they’d have laughed about how inexperienced we are.”

“Probably,” Bitty agrees. “I’m glad we did it without their help. Next time will be easier. Right?”

“God, I hope so.” Jack takes a sudden detour into the strip mall on their right.

“What are you doing?” Bitty asks, a bit cautiously. Right now, all he wants to do is go straight to bed and sleep for as long as Ellie will let them.

Jack pulls into a spot in one of their favorite coffee shops. “Be right back,” he says as he exits the car. He returns with two giant cups of coffee in hand. “I asked for the strongest, sweetest thing they had. I think this is a quad mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top.” He hands one to Bitty. “I know we’re trying to cut back on the sugar and caffeine, but I think we deserve this today.”

“This,” Bitty says, taking a sip, “is heaven in a cup. I love you so much right now.”

“Yeah?” Jack takes a sip from his own cup. “Do you love me enough to drive the rest of the way home?”

“Got your back, Sweetpea.”

“I love _you_ so much right now.”

Bitty slides out of the passenger seat and crosses to the other side. Jack pulls him in for a quick kiss that turns into a lingering hug when they cross paths. Bitty could fall asleep here and now, but “we probably shouldn’t do this in a busy parking lot with our sick daughter in the car.”

“Probably not,” Jack agrees.

“Hold my coffee?” Bitty asks, handing it off to Jack.

“Got your back, Bits.”

Bitty presses a button to adjust the driver’s seat and they both peek around to the back seat to check Ellie one more time before he starts the car. She’s awake but quiet, her beautiful blue eyes fixed on them. “Hey there, baby girl. You feeling better?”

Ellie blinks and gives them the biggest smile, completely unaware of her role in what has, as of today, been their most difficult challenge as parents.

“It’s a good thing you’re the cutest baby in the world,” he says, “because you sure are a lot of work.”

“We’ve got your back,” Jack says.

“That’s right, baby girl,” Bitty says. He feels a lightness in his chest that wasn't there in last night's anxious hours. “We’ve got _your_ back, too.”


	7. Ziggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh, it’s not dinner, actually. Don’t get mad, Bits, but there’s a dog at the house right now.”  
> Silence.  
> “Bud?”  
> “A real dog?” Bitty squeaks out.  
> “She’s very real,” Jack says, looking at the dog, asleep on the floor. He’s going to have to buy her a bed. “She’s not staying, obviously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in fits and starts over the course of a month or so. I started it as a birthday fic for WrathoftheStag, then set it aside in favor of something else. When Wrath posted her ficlet about Jack and Bitty adopting a cat earlier this week, I was inspired to finish it. Call it an au of her au.

Jack doesn’t mean to sleep in until seven. He gets up at five every morning, even during the off-season. He likes to get his morning run out of the way and start the coffee before Bitty wakes up. He sighs, and mentally recalibrates his day. He doesn’t have a lot he has to do, just some work on the bathroom they’re remodeling, but the late start already has him out of sorts.

”Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asks as he pulls his running shoes on while Bitty gets ready for work.

“You were so tired after all the work we did last night, I figured I’d let you sleep. I overslept too.” Bitty holds up two bow ties. “Purple or gray?”

“Purple brings out your eyes,” he says, a phrase he learned from Bitty that also happens to be true.

Bitty beams. “Purple it is. I’m doing a photo shoot at that cute little bakery that just opened this afternoon,” he says. “With any luck, I’ll be done by five and I’ll be able to pick up dinner on the way home.”

Jack nods. He knows Bitty loves his job making little videos and running the social media accounts for a local lifestyle magazine and its website, but sometimes a shoot can run long.

“I can start something,” Jack says. “I know it’s take-out night, but—” he shrugs “— I’ve got time. It’s not like I’ve been doing a whole lot.”

“You work so hard during the season,” Bitty says, coming back into their bedroom to give him a kiss, “you deserve to lounge around in sweatpants all day.”

“Ha ha. I’ll go for my run as soon as you leave, then I’ll work on stripping that old wallpaper. And I should probably call Coach Murray back about going back to do a workout with this year’s team as soon as everyone is back on campus. Should I tell him you’re interested, too?”

“Sure. Just try to plan it for a Saturday, if you can. Maybe we can make a weekend out of it, meet up with Shitty and Lardo.” He keeps the conversation going as he gets ready, telling Jack about a new photography exhibit at an art museum they can check out, and a pub Shitty said they might like. Jack lies back on the bed and just watches him.

“Admiring the view?” Bitty asks when he catches Jack staring.

“Always.”

It’s a point of pride that even after all these years, Jack can still make Bitty blush a little.

Jack’s still lounging on the bed when Bitty’s finally ready to leave. “You sure do look ready for that run,” Bitty chirps.

“You look like you’re going to be late for work,” Jack retorts.

“I’ll have you know I’ve only been late to work once,” Bitty says, “and that was the morning after you went into double overtime in Anaheim.”

“That was a good game.”

Bitty puts a stop to Jack’s reminiscing with a kiss.

“Mmm, this is nice,” he mumbles against Bitty’s lips.

“What is?” Bitty smiles into the kiss.

“Me saying goodbye to you for once. Don’t have to get on a plane or go to practice.”

“But you should,” Bitty says, pulling away and giving him a little swat, “get your run in before it gets too warm.” He’s still laughing on his way out the door.

Jack’s nearly finished with his run — only a few blocks away from home — when he notices the dog.

He doesn’t slow down, assuming the its owner is somewhere in the vicinity and will catch up shortly. But when the small black and white husky puppy follows him down the block and there’s still no sign of another human, Jack begins to grow concerned. He slows to a walk. The dog seems friendly enough. If it will let him approach, he can check for a tag, give its owner a call.

When Jack stops, the dog sits and looks up at him. “Hey, girl,” he says. “Are you lost?” She doesn’t seem aggressive, is in no hurry to get away. She cocks her head at Jack and twitches her tail.

Jack continues his slow approach, talking to her the entire time. “I just want to check to see where you came from.” As he gets closer, he notices how thin she is, how matted and dirty her fur is. There’s a cut on one of her ears that looks recent and probably needs attention. Yet even in this state, the dog is striking. One of her eyes is an icy blue. The other is light brown. Jack has never seen a dog with eyes like this.

“Is somebody missing you? Maybe they’ve been looking for a long time ...” he finally gets close enough to realize she’s not wearing a collar. The street remains deserted. Whoever this dog belongs to left a long time ago.

“Maybe you can come home with me,” he suggests. If the dog will follow him, he can at least give her some water and something to eat. There’s probably some plain chicken in the fridge.

“Come on,” he says in what he thinks is an encouraging voice. “Are you hungry?”

The dog follows Jack all the way home. He puts her in the backyard and heads into the kitchen to prepare a bowl of water and a plate of shredded chicken. When he goes back outside she’s lying in a patch of shade, but perks up immediately when Jack sets the food and water down beside her.

While the dog eats, Jack texts Tater to get the number for his vet. He’s already decided he’s going to take the dog in to see if she’s chipped. The injury on her ear should probably be looked at, too.

 _You and B get a pet?_ Tater asks.

 _No! Just a stray dog I found while I was running_.

It’s a few minutes before Tater replies. _You have new house with big yard. You should keep it_.

Tater is not the first person to make this suggestion. “You two should get a dog,” Suzanne had said when she came out to see the new place. Bitty had made a face and said something about dogs smelling and shedding, and that had been the end of that. But Jack has always liked the idea. It would be nice, he thinks, to have a running companion on those mornings Bitty wants to sleep in (which is most mornings that are not Saturdays). And of course, it would be nice for Bitty to have someone to come home to when Jack’s on the road. He’s brought it up to Bitty a few times since Suzanne’s visit, but Bitty has always made that face and an excuse about why they shouldn’t get a pet. “They smell. They shed. We’re put of town too much.” All of this is true, but Jack knows he isn’t going to be going on roadies forever, and until that day comes there are always sitters and kennels.

Now, this husky is looking up at him with one blue and one brown eye, and Jack hears his mother-in-law’s words again: “You two should get a dog.” It feels like a sign.

 _I need to try to find her owner first_ , Jack finally replies.

 _Go to Dr. Brown_ , Tater texts. _She’s great_.

Jack calls the veterinarian’s office and, after he explains the situation, is asked to bring the dog in for an exam. He wishes he had a leash, but the dog follows him through the gate to his car and waits by his side while he unlocks the door. He’s not sure if it’s because somebody has trained her, or because she’s too exhausted to run anymore. “Do you like Springsteen?” He turns up the volume on the radio. The dog doesn’t seem to hate it.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Brown says after discovering she doesn’t have a microchip, “her owner probably dumped her. We see it too often with huskies. People buy the adorable puppy and don’t think about how it’s going to become a big dog with a lot of energy. You can try posting her picture on Facebook, but at this point, considering she’s probably been on the streets for weeks, you’re not likely to find the owners.”

“My husband’s good with social media,” Jack muses. “Maybe he can help me get the word out.”

Dr. Brown smiles kindly. “That sounds like a good idea. In the meantime, I can give you some antibiotics for her ear and some dog food samples. Since it seems like she may be staying with you for a little while.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t ... I can’t take her home. My husband —”

“Most area shelters are overcrowded,” Dr. Brown interrupts. “You can call a few, but it’s unlikely they’ll be able to take her in right away. Your better bet is to call a rescue group that specifically works with huskies, but it may still be a few days before they can send a volunteer out to get her. Are you sure you can’t keep her for a day or two?”

And, well, if it’s just a day or two … The backyard is big enough. She won’t even have to come inside, if Bitty doesn’t want her to.

“Good luck,” Dr. Brown says. “Feel free to make an appointment with our receptionist if you’d like to bring her back for vaccinations.”

From the vet Jack takes the dog to the pet store, where he’s able to get her an appointment with the groomer. While the dog is being bathed, he wanders the store and chooses a leash and collar and bowls for food and water. She’s only going to be with them until somebody from a rescue group can take her, but she should probably have a stuffed animal friend and a ball, he decides. Maybe some tougher toys to chew on. And more food. The vet gave him a small bag of dry food, but it won’t last long. He spends several minutes in the dog food aisle, comparing organic versus grain-free versus raw varieties, and finally decides on a premium grain-free kibble that’s high in protein.

“New baby?” the cashier asks. “She’s lovely.”

Jack glances down at the now-clean dog by his side. “Thank you,” he replies.

Jack lets the dog come inside the house this time. She’s clean, he reasons, and will just get dirty if he leaves her in the yard. She’ll be more comfortable inside anyway, after so much time on the streets. When he settles down on the couch with his laptop to research rescue groups, she settles down on the floor and rests her head on his feet.

He calls a few shelters — Dr. Brown was right, none of them have room — then begins to make a list of potential rescue groups. A few look promising, but he decides he should probably take some pictures before he contacts them. The dog turns out to be a great model. He’s so busy with his impromptu photo shoot he forgets to mention their temporary house guest to Bitty until the day is almost over. He calls him just after five, hoping it’s late enough that he’s not interrupting his shoot.

“There’s a surprise at home,” he begins, hopeful Bitty will put this in the category of “good surprises.”

“Don’t tell me it’s chicken tenders,” Bitty says, tone playful. “When you said you’d cook dinner —”

Shit. Jack had actually forgotten he’d told Bitty he’d take care of dinner. He glances at the clock, wondering if a pizza will get here before Bitty.

“Uh, it’s not dinner, actually. Don’t get mad, Bits, but there’s a dog at the house right now.”

Silence.

“Bud?”

“A real dog?” Bitty squeaks out.

“She’s very real,” Jack says, looking at the dog, asleep on the floor. He’s going to have to buy her a bed. “She’s not staying, obviously. I’ll explain when you get home. But I’ve been so busy taking care of her I completely forgot to start dinner. What kind of pizza do you want?”

He can imagine Bitty’s eye roll and wry smile as he says, “Mr. Zimmermann, are you trying to butter me up with pizza?”

The pizza does arrive before Bitty, just early enough that it’s still hot when he walks through the door. “Bits is here,” Jack tells the dog. “He’s the best. Try to impress him.”

Bitty tentatively pokes his head into the kitchen. “Mr. Zimmermann, is that a _dog_ in my _kitchen_?”

At the sound of Bitty’s voice, the dog’s tail begins to wag.

“It’s just for a night, maybe two,” Jack says, handing him a slice of pizza. “I found her on my run and took her to the vet, thinking she could check her chip and find her owner. But she didn’t have one, and the vet said she’s probably been on her own for a long time. None of the shelters have room for her so I brought her home until a rescue group can send somebody to get her.”

Bitty and the dog seem to be sizing each other up. “Well, she sure is pretty, I can’t deny that. Those eyes! Do you know how old she is?”

“The vet thinks she’s about eight months.”

Bitty nods.

“I took some pictures earlier. I thought we could put them up on the neighborhood Facebook and Nextdoor groups and send them to some rescues. Can you help me with that later?”

“Of course,” Bitty says slowly, “but this dog isn’t going anywhere, is she honey?”

“What do you mean?”

“ _Jack_ ,” Bitty says, but it’s not exasperated at all, just fond. “Remember when you picked out our first apartment, how you rejected the first dozen places the agent showed you because the kitchen wasn’t good enough for me? You didn’t even know you were in love with me. Yet there you were, giving your mama every single excuse for why this one or that one wouldn’t work, because some deep down part of you knew you wanted it to be my place too.”

“Yeah.” It should have been obvious then, his feelings for Bitty, but Jack hadn’t been the most self-aware back then.

“Well—” Bitty glances at the bags full of toys on the counter, the dog dishes in the corner of the kitchen.

 _Oh_.

“She’s sweet, Bits. She follows me around the house and knows a few commands. I think her old owners trained her.”

“Why do you think they gave her up?” Bitty asks.

“The vet said dogs like this have a lot of energy. Not everyone is able to manage that. I did some research when I got home. Huskies need to stay active. They can run several miles at a time, which is one of the reasons they’re used in sled teams.”

“You did research,” Bitty says. He says it the way he says “this boy” when Jack does something particularly romantic.

“I did —”

“You want to keep this dog, don’t you?”

“I just think she belongs with us,” Jack says. “We can run with her, and all of the websites say huskies are great with kids. When the time comes. She even has our eyes.” Bitty smiles at that, and Jack takes it as a positive sign.

Bitty sets his pizza on the counter and gets down on his knees. He allows the dog to sniff at him and lick his hand before he tentatively pets her. “What should we call her?”

“Ziggy,” Jack says immediately.

“Ziggy?”

“For Ziggy Stardust? Because her eyes are two different colors and David Bowie ... well, his eyes were actually—” Jack’s words are cut off by a hug that almost cuts off his air supply.

“If nobody comes forward to claim her, we can keep her,” Bitty says into his chest. “You already love her, and I’m halfway there. Just, she’s not sleeping in our bed.”

“I’ve already ordered one,” Jack admits. “And a special leash for running, and ...”

Bitty’s laugh is bright as Jack continues to tell him about the running routes he’s already mapped and the ideas he has for their next holiday card. They need to tell his parents, and Bitty’s. He suspects his father, or Suzanne, or both, will send a box of homemade dog treats before the week is over.

Bitty surprises him by getting down on the floor next to Ziggy and pulling Jack down with him. They decide to wait a few days, just to be sure, but by Saturday the selfie finds its way to Bitty’s Instagram:  _And then there were three_.


	8. telling stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you accusing our daughter of lying?” Jack asked. 
> 
> “I just thought it was important to check in with you, to find out if she’s telling the truth before I talk to her about telling stories.”
> 
> Jack could feel his anger rising, but to his surprise, Bitty burst out laughing.

“Do you think everything is okay?” Bitty asked as they walked toward Ellie’s kindergarten classroom together. “It’s not … usual … to have the parents come in for a conference this early in the year, is it?”

“I don’t know, Bits.” Secretly, Jack was a little worried, too. Ellie seemed to like school. She came home each day brimming with enthusiasm, and talked about her new classmates as though they’d been best friends for years, not weeks. As far as he knew, she was eating the lunches they’d been packing for her and enjoying the after school program she stayed at until one of them could pick her up. The reason for today’s conference, at the request of Ellie’s teacher, was a mystery.

Miss Mayer met them at the door. “Thank you for coming today,” she said, ushering them inside. “I know it can be an inconvenience, so I appreciate it.” She took a seat behind her desk and motioned for Jack and Bitty to sit in the chairs on the other side.

“No problem,” Bitty said. “Although we have to admit, we’re a little curious about why you asked us here. Ellie hasn’t been getting into any trouble, has she?” This seemed unlikely to Jack. Ellie was spirited, but she was also, like Jack, a rule follower to her very core.

“Well, no, not exactly,” Miss Mayer hedged. She slid a small stack of papers across her desk. “I’m just a little concerned about some of the work we’ve done in class. The students were asked to write about their families last week. Because very few of them are writing independently, they dictated their stories to a parent helper and then drew the pictures themselves. This is Ellie’s.” She indicated the paper on the top of the stack. Bitty picked it up and began to read out loud:

“‘My name is Ellie Zimmermann-Bittle, and I’m five-years-old. I live with Daddy and Papa and our dog, Ziggy. Papa is very very tall and carries me on his shoulders. He plays hockey on TV and is best friends with Freddie the Falcon. He likes to eat Daddy’s pie. Daddy has yellow hair and strong arms. He is the best at cuddling. He cooks things on TV. He likes to make pie for me and Papa.’ Awww, this is sweet.” He looked up at Miss Mayer. “I’m not sure what the problem is.”

Beside him, Jack wondered the same thing.

Miss Mayer took a deep breath. “It’s not uncommon for young children to tell fantastic stories. They have very active imaginations at this age and tend to exaggerate the truth or flat out make things up. I just … Ellie has been going around telling her classmates that one of her fathers is a professional athlete and the other is a famous chef and that she watches you on TV. It’s very confusing to the other students.”

“Baker,” Bitty corrected quietly.

“And then there’s this.” She pulled a picture book from another stack. “I read this story to the class yesterday. It’s a very sweet story about all the ways to make a family. Ellie got very excited and told everyone the book is about her.”

“Are you accusing our daughter of lying?” Jack asked.

“I just thought it was important to check in with you, to find out if she’s telling the truth before I talk to her about telling stories.”

Jack could feel his anger rising, but to his surprise, Bitty burst out laughing. “Miss Mayer, thank you for talking to us before talking to Ellie. You’re right. She does have a very active imagination. Last year she invited all of her preschool classmates to the house for a birthday party for her stuffed bunny. I was out of town at the time, and poor Jack had to deal with it.” He chuckled at the memory. Jack smiled, too. It really hadn’t been that bad, once he’d gotten over the initial shock of 10 four-year-olds and a handful of younger siblings showing up unannounced. It was a good thing Bitty always kept some cookie dough in the freezer. “She’s a spirited girl with an active imagination, for sure, but everything you’ve mentioned today is true.”

The teacher looked at them with wide eyes. “I— ”

Bitty nodded in understanding. “We should have told you at kindergarten orientation, but we didn’t think it would come up like this. Jack and I don’t have typical careers, but Ellie doesn’t know that. I don’t know if you’re a sports fan, but Jack here is the captain of the Providence Falconers. And I _do_ have a baking show, as well as a couple books. As far as she’s concerned, it’s normal to see your parents on TV and in magazines.”

Miss Mayer, in an apparent state of shock, simply nodded.

“And,” Bitty continued, “this book was written and illustrated by some friends of ours. She might be a little confused because our friend Derek actually wrote it about adopting his son, but the illustrator did draw Ellie in the scene where they celebrate his homecoming. Look —” he said, pulling the book toward him and turning to the page in question — “there we are.” He pointed at a little girl with dark pigtails, sitting on the shoulders of a tall man with the same dark hair and blue eyes. A shorter, blond man stood beside them. “Looks just like us, don’t you think?”

By now, Miss Mayer looked absolutely mortified. “I’m so sorry for making assumptions,” she apologized. “It’s just — last week one of Ellie’s classmates told the class her mother was in that horrible helicopter crash, and it turned out she was actually just one of the doctors who helped the victims. And another boy keeps telling everyone his father is Iron Man. I just assumed Ellie was also stretching the truth a bit.”

“We do appreciate the concern,” Bitty said, in what Jack knew was his super-polite-sounding-but-just-barely-restrained-passive-aggressive-Southerner voice.

Jack decided to take over before his husband could lay it on too thickly. “We appreciate the opportunity to clear things up. We’ve never wanted her to feel different or superior others because of our careers or who our friends and family are, so we’ve never acted like it's big deal. But, ah, maybe it’s time we have a talk with her about what she shares with her classmates. And we’re happy to come in and talk to the students about what we do, if you think it will help.”

“That could be a good idea,” Miss Mayer agreed. “Let all the parents come in and tell the students what they do.”

“You never know, maybe that little boy’s father really is Iron Man,” Bitty said.

Miss Mayer looked skeptical.

“He’s kidding,” Jack said as they stood to leave. “Thank you, again, for allowing us to clear things up. Feel free to call us any time.”

“I’m so sorry I wasted your time,” Miss Mayer apologized, again. “Thank you for being so understanding. And congratulations on the new baby.”

Bitty and Jack looked at each other.

“Er —” Jack said.

“That’s —” Bitty started.

“Oh, was that supposed to be a secret? Ellie told me at recess yesterday she’s getting a new baby brother soon.”

“That,” Bitty said tightly, “is definitely not public.”

They just barely made it out the door before they burst out laughing. “Can you imagine,” Bitty gasped as they walked toward the classroom where Ellie’s after school program met. “What that teacher must have thought of us!”

“It does all seem a little unbelievable if you don’t know us,” Jack reasoned.

“And a _baby_. Lord, after just convincing that teacher _our daughter is not a liar,_ it was all I could do to keep a straight face and pretend it was true.”

“It could be,” Jack said.

“Jack Zimmermann-Bittle, of all the ridiculous things. Having a baby just to prove our child isn’t a liar ...”

“We’ve always talked about having another and now that I’m getting ready to retire …” Jack shrugged. “It’s a good time, that’s all I’m saying.”

Bitty’s face softened. “If you’re serious, we can talk about it at home. I’ve been starting to think it might be a good time, too. Maybe we should make some calls.” He opened the door to the after school program and they walked in together.

“Daddy! Papa!” Ellie flew toward them and attached herself to Bitty’s legs. “You’re _both_ here to pick me up!”

“We sure are, sugar pie,” Bitty said. “We got to go to your classroom and talk to your teacher and see some of your work. I hear I give the best cuddles.” He gently peeled Ellie away from his legs and took her backpack and lunchbox out of her cubby while Jack signed her out.

Ellie giggled. “ _And_ you make the best pie. Can we have pie when we get home?”

“Yeah Bits, can we?” Jack asked as he settled Ellie on his shoulders.

“Funny how you two can talk me into just about _anything_ ,” Bitty said with a smirk. He caught Jack’s eye and winked.

“I think that’s a _yes_ ,” Jack said.

From her perch on his shoulders, Ellie cheered.


	9. Sick Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [WrathoftheStag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwuahna/pseuds/WrathoftheStag/works?fandom_id=1147379l), who prompted: "Jack and Bitty are both sick and in Jack's apartment for a weekend." I took some liberties with the term "weekend."

Nobody tells Bitty about The Plague until it's too late.

It’s September 23, school started just under a month ago, and the fifth graders in Bitty’s class have been dropping like flies. A third of the class was out sick yesterday. A third! And they’re staying out for two or three days at a time, Whatever is going around, it’s not some run-of-the-mill 24-hour stomach thing.

“Is there something I should know?” he asks Allison, the other fifth grade teacher and Bitty’s mentor for the year. “Some tradition where the parents get together and decide to prank the new teacher by keeping their kids out of school?”

“Oh, honey.” Allison somberly shakes her head. “This is just par for the course. It happens at the beginning of every new school year. All these kids and their germs in one place? Just watch, you’ll get it, too.”

After recess, Mackenzie asks to go to the nurse for a sore throat. After lunch, Victor complains of a stomachache. Three other kids seem listless during the history lesson Bitty spent an hour preparing last night.

Bitty looks at the nine empty desks as he takes roll on Wednesday morning and firmly resolves to stay healthy.

*

  
Bitty’s resolve is no match for the germs of 28 fifth graders. By Thursday afternoon, he’s beginning to feel an insistent tickle in the back of his throat. He must have swallowed something wrong, he reasons. By the time he gets home, his whole body aches, even his eyes. Who even knew that eyes could ache?

“You look like hell, bud,” Jack observes when Bitty walks in the door. He’s barefoot and freshly showered, his hair sticking out at odd angles like he decided making the peanut butter sandwich in his hand was a more immediate concern than combing his hair.

“Thanks, you’re cute, too,” Bitty says, rising on his toes to kiss his soft, clean-shaven cheek.

“No, Bits, you really don’t look well,” Jack says, steering Bitty into the bathroom off of the kitchen and flipping on the light.

Bitty takes a good look at himself in the mirror and discovers Jack is right: At best, he looks tired, the dark circles under his eyes especially prominent. At worst, his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes indicate a fever. He presses a hand to his forehead, then grabs Jack’s hand and does the same. “Do I feel hot?”

“Warm, maybe,” Jack agrees. “Do you feel sick?”

“Nine of my kids were out sick today. Allison called it The Plague. Oh my lord,” he says, abruptly sitting on the closed toilet seat. “I can’t get sick now; it’s the first month of school! I told these kids they needed to come to class with pencils and listening ears not … strep throat and stomach viruses!”

Jack chuckles. “How did you not know about this, Bits? Didn’t you do a semester of student teaching?”

“In the spring!” Bitty cries indignantly. “When everyone was healthy. How did _you_ know about it?”

“Oh.” Jack shrugs. “Marty and Thirdy get sick every year when their kids go back to school. Took half the team down last year.”

Vaguely, Bitty recalls the week Jack spent slamming Emergen-C and washing his hands more than usual. He’d been preoccupied with the first semester of his teaching program’s classes, and had waved it away as some sort of pre-season superstition.

“Why don’t you rest while I cook dinner?” Jack suggests.

“Yeah, okay. I could rest.” Bitty trudges to their room, every step a more ambitious effort than the last.

 

“Soup?”

Bitty’s eyes fly open. He’d changed into his softest pair of sweatpants and one of Jack’s t-shirts and had only meant to sit down for a few minutes, but he must have fallen asleep. Right here on the bed, in his pile of discarded work clothes and the slightly damp towel Jack forgot to hang up. “Hm?” he asks.

One side of Jack’s mouth quirks up in a half smile. “There’s soup downstairs. Chicken noodle.”

“My throat hurts,” Bitty replies. In his sleep, the tickle had morphed into full-blown irritation.

“Okay, well. Come try to eat something.” Jack gallantly holds out his hand for Bitty and helps him to his feet.

In theory, soup sounds good. Jack even used the bunny pasta Mama sent in her last care package, which makes Bitty smile. But he can only swallow down a few bites before he loses his appetite and pushes the bowl away.

“I think you’re sick, bud,” Jack says. “Are you going to finish that?” When Bitty shakes his head, Jack pulls the bowl closer.

“You can’t eat that!” Bitty gasps as he takes a bite. “You’ll get sick.”

Jack shrugs, unbothered. “I think I’ve already been exposed to whatever you’ve got. We sleep in the same bed, remember? And you kissed me goodbye this morning.”

Bitty does remember their goodbye kiss, a mere 12 hours ago when he was feeling fine. He’d had to cut it off before it got too heated. At the time he’d assumed they’d just pick up where they left off tonight, but that was before The Plague.

Bitty shrugs. If Jack wants to tempt fate, who is he to stop him?

 

Bitty does not sleep well. He moves to the couch in the middle of the night, worried his coughing — because he’s _coughing_ now, this really is The Plague and he’s probably going to die — will keep Jack up. It’s certainly preventing _him_ from getting any sleep. He finally falls asleep when the sun is coming up, after he hears Jack leave for his morning run. He wakes again when he feels Jack settle on the couch next to him. He hands him a CVS bag filled with cough drops and cold meds. He must have stopped at the one he passes on his run.

“Ugh. You stink,” Bitty says, cracking one eye open. “Shower, please.”

“Take this first.” Jack hands him a glass of water and three pills. “It’ll help with your fever.”

“I don’t have a fever. I’m cold,” Bitty says petulantly, hiking the blanket up around his shoulders.

“That means you have a fever. Come on.” Jack shakes the pills in his hand.

Bitty downs the pills and — because Jack is still looking at him expectantly — the entire glass of water. This seems to satisfy him.

“Are you calling out sick?” Jack asks.

Bitty sighs. The last thing he wants to do is call out sick before he even has a month of teaching under his belt, but it would be worse to go to school and infect his remaining students, wouldn’t it? Besides, he barely has the energy to lift his head; he’s not sure he can make it through a whole day of teaching. “I’ll call,” he promises.

“I have a morning workout with the team and a couple of interviews later, then some more stuff with the team,” Jack tells him before he leaves for the day. “Call me if you need anything.”

*

Bitty dozes off and on all day, with the background sounds of morning shows and _The Price is Right_ keeping him company. He sets the timer on his phone to alert him when it’s time to take more Advil, and even manages to eat half a bowl of soup for lunch. He’s sleeping again when he hears Jack’s key in the door.

“I’m sick,” Jack announces, dropping his bag in the entryway and slowly making his way to the couch.

And, well, he certainly has that glassy-eyed look Bitty was sporting yesterday.

“I started to feel a little off in practice and made it through the first interview before I had to go throw up.” Jack continues. “And I feel like my head is going to split open.”

“Oh,” Bitty says. “I didn’t get those. I just hurt all over and can’t stop coughing.” His caregiving instincts fight a brief war with his own misery, and misery wins. “Um, there’s still some soup in the fridge,” he says, weakly waving in the direction of the kitchen.

“Not hungry,” Jacks says. “I just want to rest here with you.”

“When I said I was looking forward to sharing everything with you when I moved in, I didn’t mean germs,” Bitty says as Jack lies down beside him and pulls him into a spooning position. Bitty never would have suspected, before they got together, that Jack would be the type to get clingy when he’s not feeling well. “I’m sorry I got you sick.”

“Eh,” Jack says. That’s all he says. He’s already asleep.

*

The rest of Thursday is spent somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, with occasional bursts of lucidity whenever Bitty pops some Advil and a throat lozenge. At one point feels so good he tries to bake something to make Jack feel better, but only has a pie crust rolled out when the meds wear off when he starts to feel woozy and almost passes out right there in the kitchen. Jack’s laughter turns into a coughing jag when Bitty relates the story.

“Wait, who was the pie for?” Jack asks, and only then does Bitty realize that he wouldn’t be able to serve a Plague Pie anyway.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “It just seemed like a good idea.”

*

On Friday, they both call in sick.

*

“Bitty … Bits.” Bitty wakes to Jack poking him in the ribs. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of whatever they were watching.

“Mmf,” Bitty groans.

“I’ll let you pick the next show if you bring me some Gatorade,” Jack rasps.

“How about if you get the Gatorade and you pick the next show,” Bitty counters.

“Bits, I’m _dying_.” Jack sounds and looks as pitiful as Bitty feels.

“Fine, I’ll get it,” Bitty says. He’ll just close his eyes for a second and then get up …

“Bits.” Another poke.

“Oh lord, did I fall asleep?”

“I don’t know,” Jack confesses. “I think I fell asleep, too.”

“Gatorade,” Bitty remembers. He slowly slooooowly gets to his feet and just stands for a minute while he sways back and forth. Jack steadies him with a gentle hand to his hip. “Okay, going,” he finally says, beginning to long trek to the kitchen. He stops twice on the way, once to catch his breath and once because he’s interrupted by a coughing jag. When the blast of cold air from the open refrigerator hits him he almost forgets what he’s looking for.

“Bits?” Jack calls weakly.

Right, Gatorade. He pulls the bottle from the shelf and presses it against his cheek. He’s so hot.

Jack, however, is not. When Bitty makes his triumphant return to the couch, feeling as though he’s just scaled Mount Everest, Jack has pulled the blanket up to his chin and is shivering beneath. Bitty gingerly sits on the edge of the couch and waits for Jack to pull himself up to a seated position. They take turns sipping from the bottle.

“Thank you,” Jack whispers.

“I love you too,” Bitty says.

*

They spend the rest of Friday wrapped up together on the couch, an event Bitty would welcome if they were both healthy and fully-functioning. As it is, he kind of just wants the couch to himself. Jack is a giant space heater, which is nice during Bitty’s cold spells, but not when he’s burning up like he is right now.

“Are you hungry?” Jack asks when his watch alarm goes off, indicating it’s time for another dose of Advil.

Bitty pulls out his phone. It’s almost 9 pm. “I could eat,” he says, cautiously. “You gonna cook?”

Jack makes a face, like he’s suddenly lost whatever appetite he had. “I thought we could order food he says,” picking his own phone up and opening a delivery app. “What do you want? Burgers? Pizza?”

The thought of something so heavy makes Bitty’s stomach churn. “Um. Maybe just some rice and steamed vegetables from the Chinese place down the street? With the egg flower soup?”

Jack puts in the order and takes a sip of tepid Gatorade. “Yuck,” he declares. “Want some water?”

If Bitty weren’t so miserable himself, he’d laugh at the way Jack cautiously makes his way to the kitchen, holding onto the furniture for support.

*

“We’re really gross,” Bitty says, snuggling back into Jack’s side after “dinner.” They’d eaten directly from the styrofoam container, passing it back and forth until all the rice and vegetables were gone. “We can never be sick at the same time again.”

“Oh, it’ll happen again,” Jack says, idly wrapping the little slip of paper from his fortune cookie around his finger. “Just wait until we have kids.”

And sure, maybe Bitty’s been a little delirious the past two days, but he knows what he heard, even if Jack didn’t mean to say it.

Well, it’s not like they don’t know where this is headed. 

“That better not be a proposal,” Bitty says sleepily, “because I always thought it would be more romantic.”

“What, being sick together in our living room isn’t romantic enough for you?” Jack chirps.

“Lord, can you imagine telling reporters we got engaged over bland takeout and NyQuil?”

“And that you tried to make me a Plague Pie?”

“Oh, hush. It’s the thought that counts.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Jack insists, burying his face in Bitty’s hair, which hasn’t been washed in three days. Earlier today, during a moment when Jack had been feeling kind of good and Bitty had been feeling kind of worse, he’d played with Bitty’s hair until he’d fallen asleep. That's true love, Bitty thinks.

“Everything’s romantic with you,” Bitty assures him. “Just, maybe wait until we’re cleaned up a bit. When we do get engaged, it’s going on my Instagram story, and Mama will never forgive me if we look like we just got hit by a truck. Besides, maybe I want to propose to you.”

Jack kisses the top of Bitty’s head. “However it happens, it’ll be perfect.”

Bitty wants to tell Jack that this is perfect, right here, but when he opens his mouth a yawn comes out instead. Jack eases them back down and lowers the volume on the TV. Lying here like this, Bitty can hear the beat of Jack’s heart and his raspy breathing. He smells like cherry-menthol cough drops and whatever Gatorade he spilled on his ratty old Samwell shirt when he was trying to drink lying down. It’s not glamorous, but it’s kind of perfect all the same.


End file.
